


I Want His Tongue

by Needle_Bones



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Emetophobia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:51:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Needle_Bones/pseuds/Needle_Bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sick of looking at this. I really just wanted to gut something not too long ago and this happened. So trigger warnings abound. Blood, gore, pain, vomit, all that fun stuff. Listening to Eisbrecher's 'Leider' while writing might not have been the best idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want His Tongue

He’d never heard them coming. Looking back on it, he really should have. He should have noticed the slow, heavy footsteps or felt the temperature dive as soon as they rounded the corner.

But no. He had registered absolutely nothing until one of the twins had their hands on him, wrenching his arms back at a painful angle.

His camera clattered to the ground, skidding on the cracked floor, and that noise filled his head – static and scraping and downing out everything else. He felt his left shoulder slip back unnaturally far. Pain. Hard, sudden, jarring  _pain_. That was the moment it all clicked into place – a horrible, gristly jigsaw puzzle snapping together as he lifted his head to see the second twin walking up.

This was it, wasn’t it? No fight, no chase, just caught off guard in a dimly-lit room in a hellish asylum.

_Fuck._

“This one is loud.”

The other twin, the one standing in front of him, tilted his head. Miles saw the long blade catching in the dim light. It looked more like an ice pick than a knife. “A pleasant noise.”

He tried to stop screaming, tried to grit his teeth and go mute like he usually did when the fear took over.

_Help me._  Miles curled his aching hands behind his back. He didn’t realise he’d started screaming again until his throat began to burn from the strain.  _For God’s sake, help me!_

The blade was dull and snagged the skin, tearing instead of slicing. Miles gave up on keeping quiet and twisted, tried to get his arms free, something,  _anything_.

It was a harsh, broken sound, quickly fading out into gasping sobs. He couldn’t breathe. There was no air left in the room. So he stared. He hung there in the first twin’s hold, swallowing bile and staring down at red, red, red and ropes... there were so many ropes in him.

“He looks… shocked,” said one twin – Miles couldn’t tell which one over the ringing and rushing in his ears.

“He is trembling.”

One of them grabbed him by the jaw and forced his head up. That was when he remembered: “ _I want his tongue. And liver_.”

_No… no, no, no, please…_

“Trager will enjoy this one.”

“The doctor prefers them alive.”

“Preferences…”

The first twin dropped him, let him fall backwards, and Miles hit the cracked floor with a pained, sobbing gasp. Some simple, stupid part of his mind let him believe that curling up would help. All it did was burn. His vision blurred. Chills. They came in waves, wrapping up from the gaping wound, burrowing in near the top of his spine, and then driving their claws into his temples.

Then the knife came into focus, just a few inches from his face, and the second twin wrapped a hand around his throat. Miles swallowed hard under the hold. His body was locking up. It took everything he had to bring his hands up and shove, weakly, at the man’s wrist. He turned as well as he could in that vice-like grip, gagging, bile ripping and clawing its way up his throat.

Two thick fingers shoved between his teeth and pried his mouth open.

Miles gagged, retched, and that damn blade snagged and ripped at the corner of his mouth, tearing skin, spilling hot blood down his neck. Screaming only tore the wound open further but he couldn’t stop – couldn’t even hear himself anymore.

It was nothing short of surgical the way the man forced his mouth open and slid the knife in. Miles could barely hear it but he was sobbing. He could feel it in his chest, in the way his lungs burned. It was a hollow sound – a harsh, wracking scream broken into several parts.

It felt warm at first, then hot,  _searing_  when the blade snagged and caught and tore. Miles clawed at the man’s arm, his short nails scratching, drawing a little blood. Nowhere near enough, of course. He would have kicked and twisted away but, either the other twin was lying on his legs or else his body had shut down enough that he couldn’t feel them anymore.

There was this sick pressure on his guts – someone shoving their hands in the wound. And Miles didn’t have it in him to claw and shove and scream anymore. His throat was filling with blood and exhaustion replaced the fear and the pain and damn near everything else. Tired. Just unbelievably  _tired_.

He hadn’t felt the knife after the first cut but he felt it when the last piece broke away with a wet  _snap_. Miles turned, retched, gasped. He was used to shoving his tongue against the roof of his mouth whenever he felt like he might be sick but this – the feeling of bloody, ragged muscle shifting behind his teeth – only brought everything up that much faster.

“Unsightly,” said one twin, staring down at the reporter. Miles coughed and choked, bringing up thick strings of half-digested food, everything tinged a deep, ugly red. The world flickered, faded, and then he had his head down, one arm crossed over his chest and his hand pressed tight over his mouth, blood running steadily through his fingers.

_Just pass out_ , he thought.  _Just… just go to sleep…_

There was a strange tugging – small sparks of pain – somewhere inside him, under his ribs. It didn’t matter anymore. The tile was frigid and slick with that damn red – the only colour that registered to him by then. Somehow his eyes found his camera, lying cracked but functional several feet away. Still recording. Capturing everything.

Miles let his hand fall from his mouth.  _You’re going to die here._  It started to sink in then. This was it. No profound last words – no chance for them, even. He could feel his heart fluttering, slamming hard against his ribs for several beats and then going so soft that he wondered if it had stopped. Shock or blood loss?

_Does it really matter?_

Miles drug his hand across the tile, reaching out toward the lens. He stopped with his arm not quite extended and closed his eyes. He knew he’d never reach it – why was he even trying?

_Go to sleep, Miles._

Half his own voice and half his late mother’s, echoing and faded even in his head.

_Mom…? I’m cold…_


End file.
